


Waiting Game

by MrsSaxon



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Baltimore State Hospital, M/M, Mind Palace, Sad cannibal noises, Season 3, Vignette, during the three years later, incarceration, self-torture, solo fic, stuck in a basement in Baltimore, that's also my working title for this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 18:32:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5138207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsSaxon/pseuds/MrsSaxon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of vignettes from Hannibal's POV stretching from the end of Digestivo all the way, potentially, to meeting Will again.</p><p>Hannibal spends 3 years in his mind palace, hardly ever coming out. This is about what he sees there, who visits him, why he's doing this. </p><p>Unfinished. Continuous work. (Rating, tags, and warning subject to change depending on where Hannibal decides to go in his mind palace)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In some ways, this started out as a companion piece to http://archiveofourown.org/works/4963537 because I'm obsessed with discussing their period of separation and I'm a lot better at writing Hannibal than I am at writing Will. So this spans a much larger chunk of time and doesn't really have a plot. I just keep writing in it, adding to Hannibal's experience in jail.

The fragile screen door on Will’s house in Wolf Trap, Virginia swung tightly shut behind Hannibal. It would make a noise of warning if the slightest pressure were applied to it. He dare not think about it, ignoring his hand’s reluctance to leave the handle.

For the first time in his life, Hannibal didn’t know what he was going to do. He was free, free entirely. There was no one to catch him, no one coming to stop him. He could easily slip back into the shadows, reestablish elsewhere, and continue as before.

Except it wouldn’t be just as before.

“Do you believe you could change me… like I changed you?”

“I already did.”

Hannibal stepped purposefully off the porch, down the front walkway, into the woods. No use seeking after a direction that had been closed. This was the way he had to walk.

Had Will known, even then? Had he seen what had changed, what he had… was then becoming? Was still becoming. Hannibal had thought his becoming was all over, many years ago, in Florence when he got his first taste of that exquisite beauty. But now he knew that to be a lie; he could feel the change inside him, roiling, twisting around, looking for a shape to emulate, to mirror. What would he become?

That was why things wouldn’t be just as before, not quite, not really. That had all happened a lifetime ago, when he was in the cradle between stages of becoming. The change was linear and moved in one direction. Like time, it could not move backwards; the teacup would never realign.

But he found he did not want it to. He would crush the teacup under his heel and become again. He would change, was changing, was changed. And he could either run from it or embrace it. He had no regrets. He wished nothing from the past. He would step into the arms of this change and embrace it, consume it, become it.

That’s what becoming was. It was a change you did not resist, but participated in. He was becoming; what would become of him?

He was several yards away from Will by now, but headed neither toward the road nor into the forest. Hannibal stopped, feet parallel in the snow. Decision made, he let himself turn and look back at the house, the window, the bed where he knew Will was, the dogs he loved, the books he collected, the walls he kept, and the rest. And him. Rejected, alone, apart.

Hannibal faced the road as he walked back toward the house. He looked out at the endless vista of possibility, at the sheltering shadows, at the tracks of pigs waiting for his slaughter. He breathed deep, so he would remember the scent, the exhilarating zing of possibility. He had a feeling he would not be smelling it for a long time.

Freedom was an intoxicating scent. It was, to his thinking, one of his few addictions. Something that was always in short supply, demanded a high cost, and yet he could never get enough of. For the first time, its scent was stale and sour. It held no delicious yearning, no spark of hope.

Hannibal walked out back of the house, giving it a wide berth, never near enough to see anything or be seen. The sun was giving a bravura performance, setting into a deep gold, gilding the far off buildings and windmills. Their liminal spaces shimmering filigree against a backdrop of ochre, fading into sienna, fading into plum and indigo. Hannibal watched with silent delight, both savoring this sunset to hold in the place of so many he would miss and predicting the many he would see in better company. He painted the potential of the golden light into the walls of his mind palace, coat upon coat, shade upon shade, capturing the endless forwards and backwards in brush strokes.

Once the glowing yolk had given its last gasp to the applause of one, you could even see stars. This far away from the city, the night was spectacularly clear. Hannibal hadn’t realized he’d missed the sight of stars. The night was still dark, out in these quiet places. The stars’ small lights were fierce and bright in the distance. Eyes closed, he mapped their peculiar shine on the ceiling of the room he was constructing for this night, for the premiere of his becoming. He would miss the stars again, before too long, and these ghosts would be his friends when freedom smelled sweet and unctuous once again.

It was still many hours before Jack arrived, his coming told by the sudden rumbling of engines and colorful lights reflected in the snow. Hannibal had more than enough time to say all his goodbyes, to have every frame of decision and consequence collected and readied in his mind. The stars were still with him, shining frightful and distant above. Their glint was so familiar; their chill light could not warm, but it could inspire. And that’s what he needed now.

“Jack. I'm here. You finally caught the Chesapeake Ripper.”

The words were automatic. He had done all his thinking long before this. He had looked back on his life and projected into the future and saw his inevitable end. And he had to smile. Because that end would be with Will Graham, one way or another.

Will was there now, looking at him, wondering what he was thinking, why he was doing this. Hannibal looked at him, not to see his face, but to let Will see him, “I want you to know exactly where I am. And where you can always find me.”

This was his becoming.


	2. Chapter 2

At first, it was a zoo in every abominable sense of the word. Come see the new exhibit, free admission, but remember do not feed the animal, do not get too close to the bars. It is wild and it will bite. When the spectators became too annoying though, all he had to do was go inside and there were treasures and adventures and wonders to behold. As he had promised Will, not all of these were pleasant. But he had sufficient control over that for the time being so that he opened his eyes to the Sistine Chapel when he closed them on his basement view in Baltimore.

His food was bland and tasteless. He was insulted with plastic to eat it with. But a quick inhalation of the motionless air and he could smell succulent roasted pork and taste perfectly cooled Riesling. He finished every tray they sent him, leaving behind a neat arrangement of his cutlery.

The cell was exactly fourteen feet by eleven by nine. These were the exact specifications of old tiger crates for the circus. It amused him to think of the comparison. He wondered if Alana was aware of it. He could bound from one side of his cage to the other in a matter of seconds, but if he walked very slowly, then it was a quaint and endless garden path in Germany and he could feel the sun on his face and the flowers under his hand. Eyes closed, he could pace like a hypnotism patient without running into a single edge.

He was not an amusing tiger. He did not hiss and snarl for the punters. Neither did he bask and chuff at their smothering flattery. Like all caged beasts he ate, he slept, nothing more. And even when they spat at him, called him names, threatened to use force, he barely rolled an eye.

Alana came down from her ivory tower, once, to chastise him for being so unhelpful. He spent the entire conversation looking at her upside down from his bed. At least, that’s what she thought. He was really waiting in the rain for a train to Brussels. He had no umbrella or raincoat, poor planning. The water drenched him, made him shake and shiver, his teeth chattered. Alana may have heard and considered it mocking.

It was uncomfortable, painful almost, as the water chilled him down to the bone. But the realness of it, the fleeting grasp at sensation, was so pure and beautiful he could not bear to stop. He almost regretted when the train came and he had to give up the wonderfully stabilizing sting of the rain. But inside there was the rush of heat and smells of people and food and the comfort of familiar, human spaces, inhabited spaces. Even if he was alone on this particular train.

The visitors trickled down to only a few steadfast obsessives who were determined for a scoop, an insight, or just to stare at him. He was surprised Freddie Lounds wasn’t among them. But perhaps she had seen enough to glut her appetite for fatalistic sensationalism. The vulgar woman did have a sense of cunning about her, even if she completely lacked for common sense.

He couldn’t care less for his remaining admirers, their wishes or dreads as they looked at him. Did they see hope? Did they see their reflections? Did they see mystery, brilliance, disease, courage? No. They were stupid enough to keep staring, thinking they would see something different. They saw nothing. The blind were right next to the rude in his list of entrees, if Frederick wanted to know. It would have given him immense pleasure to step out of this cell and devour every sheep too slow to move. It had been so desperately long since he had tasted real meat, felt the thrill of creation… but it would be much longer yet.

He could no longer smell Will. His clothes had been changed so many times, he had bathed and washed so frequently, that there was no trace of Will or his dogs or his awful cologne anymore. No matter how far he opened his lungs, how hard he tried to capture the finest bits of dust and debris in his olfactory organs, there was no Will Graham here.


	3. Chapter 3

It had only been a few weeks; normal people hadn’t taken the hint to stop coming by yet. He didn’t really expect Will to break down so quickly. But it couldn’t stop him wanting.

His journeys through his mind palace were starting to look the same. It didn’t matter if he started off North, South, East or West, if he went upstairs, downstairs, passed the locked, barred wings he would not open. He could walk in a straight line forever, ‘til he reached the edge of his palace, and yet his feet would always take him back to the cream and butterscotch marble arch, the Botticelli, and the bronzed plaque reading ‘Will Graham’.

Laughter. He could hear laughter. Will was laughing.

“…not _physically_.”

Hannibal’s lips spread a smile, against his will. It took him a moment to remember the feeling, his lips moved so infrequently.

“Please help me!” Will was crying now, begging. He was reaching out, he had wanted to reach out, to take Will in his arms and make it all go away for him.

“ _Righteous._ ” Staring down a gun, Will’s closed, cold, furious expression holding the trigger.

“I’m not going to find you. I’m not going to look for you. I don’t want to know where you are or what you do. I don’t want to think about you anymore.”

Dogs, cold, snow, Will, teacups smashing, police sirens, frozen ground, Will, looking, glasses, confusion, hatred, Will, Baltimore State Hospital, criminally insane, always know where I am, Will, Frederick, Alana, Jack, cuffs, glass, Will, bed and breakfast, when you need me, Will, Will. _Will._

The marble arch, the gate, the painting, the plaque, his hand pressed over it, covering the name. He grabbed the iron gates, yanking them together with ferocious strength, trying to bend them until they locked together, never to open. His hands began to bleed before he could make a dent. He fell to his knees, the gate swinging ajar. He can’t do it, he can’t do it… He cannot close this room, this hall. Not like he closed so many others.

There is light and color and movement in this hall. There is pain, yes, and beauty too, she is here. She is always here. He constructed everything in his life as an ode to beauty. But it’s in this unwonted hall that she comes to rest. This hall that now may as well be the foundation of his whole palace. He cannot bear to close it. He does not have the strength, the will…

His mouth opens and a pathetic croaking sound comes out.

“It’s funny,” Hannibal whispered.

“What is?” It’s Jack. When did he come by? Does it matter?

“I have never lacked for will power before.” A smile, again, easier this time, remembered from recent use. He sat up, facing Jack, intent.

“You know, I believe you’re right,” Jack’s voice is mocking, easy to mock a tiger with no teeth, “Shame you lost your will.”

“Sometimes things come back, Jack,” Hannibal raised his head, defiant, “Do warn him to stay away.” He can’t quite resist smiling before the door is fully closed.


	4. Chapter 4

Perhaps zoo was the wrong metaphor. Circus, that’s more fitting. People get bored of the circus and want it to go away. They can pretend zoos are for conservation, education, nice and polite things. But a circus is a shallow excuse to laugh and point at the grotesque, the unlike, the neglected and strange. And, sometimes, it was an excuse to give in to that vulgar desire to be one of them, to be ugly and harsh and violent. People were so small and so narrow, completely incapable of realizing their potential. Eating them was a blessing to their fat, dull lives.

“Hannibal, why did you choose to be caught?” Frederick was wheedling again.

Hannibal shrugged, disappointed to find himself back in the grey, empty walls of Baltimore again. This time and space was becoming increasingly unpleasant, he disliked being dragged back here over and over.

“No, no, I will not accept that. You spent, from what we can tell, many years happily living in secret as the Chesapeake Ripper,” Frederick leaned forward on his cane, eagerness made him brazen but not faith, or lack thereof, in the glass, “but then Will Graham sailed into your life and you just had to start showing off for him, didn’t you? Look how good I kill, was that it?”

Hannibal knew if he made the slightest move in Frederick’s direction, he’d bolt like a scared rabbit. He remained stone faced, resolutely staring at the wall in front of him, all but ignoring Frederick.

“Was his admiration worth it, I wonder? Since he’s the reason you’re here… I imagine not.”

Gloating had never looked uglier than when it sat on Frederick Chilton’s broken face. Hannibal didn’t need to look at him to know. Frederick had no subterfuge about him, his voice, his face, his scent, they all said the same and they said needy, grasping, desperate. It was a truly unappealing portrait of a man.

“It’ll be an interesting final chapter for the book though: ‘twas beauty killed the beast, don’t you think?” Frederick got up to leave.

“I want my books,” Hannibal spoke up, head cocked towards Frederick at last.

Frederick turned back and hobbled a step closer, “Pardon?”

“I want my books. And my drawings. Tell Alana on your way out, won’t you Frederick? These walls could use some life in them. Who knows, it might encourage me to repent.” Frederick would think the smile was self-mocking. As usual, he was half-right but pointed in an entirely wrong direction.

He made a show of sighing and thinking about it, “Very well, Hannibal, since you’ve been more or less polite today-”

“And Frederick?” Hannibal turned towards him, eyes uncannily focused on Dr. Chilton’s exact position in the room. His body followed his eyes, getting up, moving forward, zeroing in on Frederick and Hannibal got a whiff of the unmistakable fight-or-flight response. The release of adrenaline into the room whetted his appetite and left him drooling. It was shameful that his self-control had slipped so much over just a few months of imprisonment, he thought distantly.

He stopped inches in front of the glass, just where he could physically look down at Frederick, make him feel small despite the safety of the glass barrier. “You don’t write a word about Will Graham. His story is owned, in full, by Freddie Lounds. Will has a very good contract on it too. You’ll be in a lot of hot water from Freddie’s end, I can assure you, if you try to profit off him before she does.”

He could hear Frederick swallow to speak, but continued, “And if threats of Freddie Lounds and all the legal hellfire she could rain down on you isn’t enough,” he leaned forward until his face was in shadow and Frederick could clearly see every line of his dead-eyed expression, “I will make it a priority to personally call on you when I am able. I do not miss appointments, Frederick, you can’t afford to hope I’d miss yours.”

A hot, wet breath, a gasp of fear-sweat, and Frederick was out of the room like a hare from a fox. Hannibal inhaled deeply; it was pathetic, to live vicariously on these small bursts of scent that had once been as easily obtained as air freshener. But he couldn’t afford to be proud now, he may have tasted ambrosia, but he would have to settle for its fumes while he waited. These little pleasures would help him keep his strength up, keep him from longing for the past too much. He already lived in the past too much…


End file.
